More Than We Can Tell

Saturday, March 17      04:09:29 a.m.

FROM: Robert Ellis <[email protected]>

TO: Rev Fletcher <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: Disappointed

Do you remember your lessons? Perhaps you were too young.

Here is one from Proverbs I remember well. “If one curses his father or mother, his lamp shall be put out in utter darkness.”

The e-mail doesn’t wake me, though it’s a nice little morning surprise when I find it. Does my father ever sleep?

Kristin texts me at 8:00 a.m. I’ve been staring out the window, watching the sun rise for an hour.

Mom: Please tell me you’re at Declan’s.

Rev: Yes. Sorry. Should have left a note.

Mom: Did something happen?

How am I supposed to answer that?

Rev: No. All OK.

I bite at my lip, waiting. She doesn’t write back.

Matthew must not have left, because I’m sure she would have mentioned it. I should feel relief, but I don’t. I don’t feel dread, either. I don’t know what I feel.

Declan continues snoring beside me, but there’s no way I can go back to sleep. I ease off the bed and move to the desk chair, sitting in the dim light of early morning, thinking.

My father’s e-mail shouldn’t be a fist to the gut, but it is. I wish I had a shred of Declan’s attitude, his ease with bucking authority. For Declan, there’d be no hesitation. He’d take a selfie of himself flipping off the camera and reply with that.

I don’t like bucking authority. You don’t need a degree in psychology to figure out why: when your father tortures you for breaking a rule, it’s hard to let that go.

But that’s just one side of it. My father wasn’t always horrible. When I earned his praise, he made me feel like the most cherished child alive. I learned to crave it.

I crave it now. And I hate myself for it.

Without warning, Declan rolls over and rubs his eyes. He finds me sitting in the chair. “Have you been up for a long time?”

My eyes flick to the clock on the dresser. It’s almost nine. “Yes.”

“You should have woken me.”

“It’s okay.” I pause, keeping my voice low. “Alan and your mom got back a little while ago. No baby.”

He sits up and looks at the door. “Are they awake?”

“I don’t think so. I heard their door close.”

“Okay.” He rubs his face again. “I need ten minutes. Do you want to go make coffee?”

Good. A task. I need a task. “Sure.”

I know my way around his kitchen as well as my own. The white cabinets, the drawer that sticks, the one loose handle that’ll come off if you tug. I could do this with my eyes closed. Making coffee takes no time at all.

Which sucks.

I read the e-mail again. I know the verse by heart. It was one of my father’s favorites.

I want to twist this phone in my hands to watch the screen shatter. Worse, I want to write back and beg his forgiveness for ignoring the last three.

I slide my sleeve back and trace my fingers over the arcs burned into the skin. I don’t remember everything, but I remember the stove. The pain was so strong it became more than pain: a scream in my ear, the brightest light in my eyes. I could taste the pain.

I never ran from my father before that day.

He caught me, of course. I was seven. He caught me and spun me around so hard that it caused a rotational fracture in my forearm.

I made it outside before he caught me. My screaming drew a lot of attention.

That, and the fact that I’d thrown up all over myself.

“Rev.”

I jump and yank my sleeve down. Declan stands in the kitchen doorway.

“The coffee’s almost ready,” I say, though I have no idea whether that’s true.

He comes into the kitchen and pulls down steel mugs from a cabinet. “Something else is up with you.”

I blink at him, startled. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. But you were fine when we fell asleep and now you’re a wreck.”

He’s right, but I have no idea what to say to that. He pulls a spoon from the drawer, then dumps an obscene amount of cream and sugar into both mugs.

Once he’s done stirring, he holds one out to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay, then come on.”

He turns and heads for the back door, not even waiting for me to follow.

I go after him. The air is cold, with just a hint of warmth to come. Clouds thicken the sky, and the humidity promises a rainstorm later. “Come on, what?”

Declan stops to unlatch the gate between our yards. He looks back at me. “The girl you met at the church doesn’t have you this keyed up. You said you barely know her.”

I don’t move. “Yeah, so?”

The latch gives, and he pushes through. “There’s only one more variable.”

A chill locks into my spine. Did he figure out the e-mails somehow? “One more—what?”

“I think I need to meet Matthew.” Then he sprints up my porch steps and goes through the sliding door, without waiting for me to catch up.

Oh. Oh, wow.

In the ten seconds it takes me to cross the yard, I consider how this will go. Every scenario I can imagine ends badly. By the time I get into the kitchen, I expect to find Declan cornering Matthew while Kristin and Geoff wring their hands and beg him to stop.

But I really should know my friend—and my parents—better than that. Declan has helped himself to a slice of bacon from a plate on the counter, and he’s dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. Kristin has two quiches cooling on racks by the stove. Matthew is nowhere to be seen.

“How is your mom feeling?” Kristin is asking Declan when I burst through the door.

She gives me an odd look, but Declan acts like nothing is amiss. “She’s fine,” he says. “Alan took her to the hospital last night, but nothing happened.”

“She must be getting close.”

“I told her that I’m going to move in here so I don’t have to listen to a baby crying.” He takes another piece of bacon. “But I guess Rev’s already got a roommate.”

“Maybe we can trade,” I say. “I don’t mind crying babies.”

Kristin glances between us, but she lets the comment go. She picks up a pan to wash from the overflowing sink. “Rev doesn’t have a roommate for long. We’re going to pick up a twin bed for the other bedroom this afternoon. We’ll put the crib and the rocker in the garage for now.”

Good.

As soon as the thought hits me, I frown. So much for welcoming everyone with open arms.

“Where is he?” I ask. It sounds like a demand. Or a threat.

“Taking a shower.” Kristin holds out the pan and a dish towel. “Dry this, please.”

I do, and she moves on to the next dish. My movements are tense and forced.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she says quietly.

“I don’t know.”

As soon as I say the words, I realize how true they are. I don’t know what’s going on. What am I supposed to say? Matthew won’t talk to me in the middle of the night. I think he might have been watching me work out. He doesn’t want to ride to school with me and Declan.

It all just sounds so … juvenile. Maybe I could whine about eating broccoli or cleaning my room next.

Kristin is looking at me while she washes the next pan, and she holds it out for me to dry. Her voice remains quiet, nonconfrontational. “Did something happen?”

Kristin has always had this magical way of making people talk, and now is no exception. I sometimes tease her that she should have been a therapist instead of an accountant. I have a great relationship with both of them, but with Kristin, her warm acceptance of everything makes it so difficult to keep my father’s e-mails a secret.

I take a breath and hold it for a moment, though I know she won’t judge me for anything I say. “Matthew makes me nervous.”

Another dripping pan extends across the counter. “That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because half an hour ago, he was sitting here telling me that you make him nervous.”

My hands go still with the dish towel. “Why do I make him nervous?”

“He didn’t say.” She pauses, then holds out another dish. “I just thought you should know.”

I consider Matthew’s reaction when I barely moved last night. I realign what he’s said—and what he hasn’t said—over the last two days. Geoff said he’s been in and out of four different foster homes so far this year. He said Matthew started a fight in the last one. I took all that to mean Matthew was the problem.

It’s not like he’s done anything to correct my assumptions.

Declan was wrong. I’m totally the resentful son.

“Hey, man,” Declan says, and the tone of his voice says he’s speaking to someone new. “Want some bacon?”

I turn to look. Matthew hovers in the shadowed hallway. His wet hair is slicked back, making him look even younger, the bruises along his face more pronounced.

His gaze bounces from me to Declan and back. Then to Kristin.

“There’s plenty left,” she says brightly.

“No, thank you.” He turns and disappears down the hallway.

I hand Kristin the dried pan and take another wet dish. She doesn’t say anything, so I don’t either.

Declan rises from his chair and comes to get more bacon. He keeps his voice low. “Rev. Seriously. You’ve got that kid by like forty pounds.”

“He doesn’t make me nervous that way.”

“What other way is there?”

I’m not sure how to answer that.

Kristin holds a dripping measuring cup out to Declan, along with another towel. “If you’re going to eat all the bacon, you can help with the dishes.”

He shoves another piece into his mouth and takes the dish readily. “Who did that to his face? Hell, if I looked like that, I’d be afraid of you, too.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not kidding.”

I dry a cookie sheet. Tension has settled across my shoulders again. I don’t know what to do with this.

“Can you boys help move the furniture this afternoon?” says Kristin. “Dad won’t admit it, but his back is bothering him again.”

“Sure,” says Declan. He takes what must be his tenth piece of bacon. “Keep feeding me and I’ll move the whole house.”

“Deal. You can start clearing out the furniture now if you want. The only thing we’re leaving in there is the dresser.”

I don’t look at her. I keep drying dishes. I can stand in the kitchen and dry dishes all day if it means I don’t have to deal with any of this.

Declan forcibly pulls the bowl out of my hands. “We’ve got our orders. Move.”

I don’t know why I was worried. Matthew doesn’t help. I don’t even know where he went. He’s probably hiding in my bedroom.

Hiding.

I don’t like that.

Shame curls through my chest like something alive. I’ve wondered how my father turned into the man he was. The man he is. I know about the cycle of abuse, and I’ve spent a lot of hours wondering when I would start to change.

Did I do something I’m not aware of ? Does Matthew sense something in me that makes him nervous? I think of the day I found the letter, how darkness wove through my thoughts and turned my anger on Geoff and Declan.

I’m glad for an excuse to bury my worries in something physical. Cleaning out the baby furniture is a bigger task than I anticipated, because we need to make room in the garage first, which requires moving plastic boxes of clothes and toys into the house and up into the attic. Kristin wants us to sweep and blow all the dust and dirt out of the garage before we move the furniture in.

Then Geoff comes back from Big Lots, and we have to unload the new furniture.

By the time we’re done, it’s midafternoon and we’re filthy. Dark clouds have rolled in, promising rain. Declan collapses in the backyard grass with a bottle of Gatorade. He’s flat on his back, staring at the sky.

Thunder cracks. Raindrops fall.

He doesn’t move. “This figures.”

I don’t move, either. The raindrops feel good. I’m sitting cross-legged with my own bottle of Gatorade. I ditched the hoodie hours ago, when the humidity got to be too much, but I kept the long sleeves. I only own one short-sleeved T-shirt. I don’t own any shorts.

“I’m supposed to meet Emma tonight,” I tell him.

“Another hot date at the church?”

“Shut up.” He was half asleep when I told him about her, but of course he’d remember that detail. “But yeah.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yes.”

My answer must be too easy, too literal, because he turns his head and looks over at me. “Do you like like her?”

Raindrops collect in my hair as I try to figure out the twisting pathway of my thoughts. I like the way her questions push me without pushing too hard. I like how she offered vulnerability when my own emotions were clawing at me from the inside.

I like her freckles and her braided hair and her analytical eyes. The soft curve of her lips.

Declan hits me with his Gatorade bottle. “Yeah. You like her.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Just be yourself.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Vickers. You have a pamphlet for that?”

Declan makes an aggrieved sound. “Man, I don’t know. Half the time I think it’s a miracle that Juliet will give me the time of day.” He swipes rain off his cheeks. “I’m probably not the best resource for relationship advice.”

Maybe not, but he’s the only resource I have.

We sit in the rain for the longest time. Lightning flashes, but it’s a while before the thunder rolls.

“Thanks for helping,” I tell him.

“I did it for the food.” Kristin made us tuna melts for lunch. I think Declan really would move in if he thought he could get away with it.

The back door slides open behind us, and I’m sure it’s Geoff or Kristin coming to tell us to get in the house and out of the thunderstorm.

Instead I hear Matthew’s voice. “Kristin says to come inside.”

Then the door slides closed.

I sigh.

Declan sits up. He hits me in the arm. “I’m going home. Go fix that.”

“I don’t know how to fix that.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Sure you do. You remember how to play with Legos, right?” Then he uncurls from the ground and heads for the gate.